From Ginef@aol.com Sat Nov 16 21:28:45 1996
Second verse, same as the first... except from Mulder's point of view. Yes,
this is a companion piece to "The Field Where I Lied." You don't need to read
the other one first. I’d appreciate any feedback. Thanks!

Thank you to everyone who wrote me about my last story! I really appreciate
it. My AOL account has been acting up so if you received a blank note from
me, I apologize. I really did write you back. Please write me again. I'd like
to thank you personally. 

Summary: Mulder takes a good, hard look at his life and what the events of
the episode TFWID have done to it. 

Warnings: TFWID spoilers. Big time Mulderangst alert. One offensive word and
thoughts of suicide. 

The legal stuff.... I have borrowed the characters and situations of the
television program "The X-Files" and will be returning them after I've bought
them breakfast. They are the creation and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. I have used them without permission. No
copyright infringement is intended.

Thanks to the Olympic beta testing team-- my friends in the Winnebago (Holo,
Ghitsa, PG, Twin, Lala, Leah, Jackee and, of course, Binky) Marlene, Heather,
Hoser and Tracey the Grammar Goddess and to JohnBear for his expertise on
reincarnation theory. And I can never pass up the chance to fawn over Darin
Morgan, so here goes... please come back, Darin! Please, please, please! I'll
give you my original Star Wars lunch box. It only has a couple of dents on it
from where I had to use it on kids who liked Battlestar Galactica better. 

This one is dedicated to the memory of Morey Amsterdam. 


The Field Where She Lied

by ginef@aol.com

It was the longest silence of my life though it lasted less than a heartbeat.
"Even if I knew for certain I wouldn't change a day..." I drew a shaky breath
and knew she had just lied to me for the first time in our partnership. Lied
to make me feel better... to help me make sense of this craziness I'd gotten
us into. At the door she turned and quipped, "Well, maybe that Flukeman
thing, I could have lived without that." Dana Katherine Scully is the only
person, in any lifetime, who could have made me smile at that moment.

I pick up the picture again and run my finger gently along the strong jaw
line. The eyes are earnest, veracious, strong... and so painfully familiar. I
fill my glass and let the vodka burn its way down my throat before I flip the
snapshot over and read the name on the back for the hundredth time...
Sergeant Jack Fletcher, 1863... Scully... oh captain, my captain... I laugh
scornfully, oh sergeant, my sergeant doesn't quite pull the same punch, but
the sentiment is there. I spent two desperate hours hunting down this picture
in the tiny county archive. I knew she wouldn't look. I knew she couldn't. I
let the photo slip from my fingers and fall to the floor, just out of my
reach, like the tattered remnants of my soul. I've had too much to drink. Or
maybe not enough.

I set my glass down on the battered coffee table and consider the bottle and
the holes in what I have learned over the last few days. I am many things--
self-centered, arrogant, and obsessive spring immediately to mind-- but
stupid is not one of them. So, of course, I realize there is no way that the
Cancer Man's soul could have occupied an officer in the Gestapo in 1940s
Poland. No, he would have been too busy pulling the legs off spiders and
torturing puppies stateside. But can I use this one inconsistency as a
catalyst to nullify everything else?

I gather the torn pieces of another ancient photograph and brush them gently
past my lips. I breathe deeply of the musty smell and try to force the image
of her body, cold and limp, from my mind. Melissa... Sarah... my soulmate...
my destiny... I am tired. So tired. I drain the vodka from my glass and try
to imagine what the poison felt like as it travelled down her throat on its
journey to stop her heart. Did it burn or was the taste hidden by the
sweetness of the Kool Aid and the knowledge that this tortured incarnation
was finally at an end? Did she think of me as she slipped away? Is she
waiting for me even now?

I pick my Sig Sauer up off the table and caress it like a lover. It's weight
is heavy and satisfying in my hand. It is an option. A choice. I place the
gun to my head. The cold metal barrel digs into my hairline and sends a
tingle of anticipation down my spine like the last inning of a one run ball
game. I hold my breath. My finger dances lightly on the trigger. I have the
power now. *I* decide if I live or die. I decide whether to free my soul to
go in search of her. I close my eyes and gently tighten my grip. It feels so
good, so entirely different from when Modell forced me to do the same thing.
I am standing on the edge of this existence, my toes curling over the dock,
the unknown waiting, beckoning for me below. I struggle for my final breath,
ragged and desperate, and beg a God I can't quite bring myself to believe in
for guidance. Scully's tortured face appears in my mind's eye. I know she
will be the one to find my body. I picture her using her key to gain entrance
only to find what remains of me sprawled out on the couch, my brains adorning
the wall like some surreal painting, my eyes staring lifelessly into hers...
I fling the gun across the room. It hits the baseboard with a thud that
renews my tenuous grasp on life. Confirms my decision to live.

I bury my face in my hands, sobbing and gasping for breath. It is the first
time I have put Scully's needs ahead of my own. She somehow sees worth in my
existence, and so I return from the dead again to continue with her, united
in dangerous purpose. I laugh bitterly. Sometimes I'm so fucking
melodramatic.

My next door neighbor is playing the Macarena again. Usually I counterattack
with one of my records from the Oxford days-- Sex Pistols, DOA, The Dead
Daalas-- but it seems too much of an effort to bother. I need to get out of
here. I need to see Scully. I grab my keys and my gun and head out in search
of a cab. 

I am in luck. I manage to catch one just around the corner. I slink into the
back seat and give the driver Scully's Annapolis address. He looks at me like
I'm an extraterrestrial, or worse, a tourist. "Very expensive, you realize,"
he asks, his voice a wonderfully sing-songy English. "I don't usually go so
far."

I whip out my ID and say, "FBI business." Maybe Skinner will save me the
trouble and kill me himself. We pull away from the curb post haste. I watch
the city whipping by. I open the window and stick my head out in an effort to
clear the cobwebs from my mind. The wind rushes by with the speed of my
thoughts. Could I have been so desperate to embrace extreme possibilities
that I used an obviously mentally disturbed young woman to tap into my own
neurotic needs? Am I Pavlov's dog? Suggest a paranormal experience and I
salivate? I must admit this is entirely plausible. I cannot deny that I felt
a tremendous pull towards Melissa, like a man lost in the desert finding an
oasis. I drank deeply, greedily, only to choke on my own sandy mirage. Was it
love? Was it real? Was this my soulmate or just another attempt on my part to
rescue someone who didn't want to be saved?

I need reassurance. I need logic. I pull my head in and roll up the window
before retrieving my cellphone. I dial Scully's number. There is no answer. I
turn my gaze to the driver, who is eyeing me nervously in the rearview
mirror. "You know anything about reincarnation?"

He grimaces. "Because I'm East Indian, you assume I know something about
reincarnation?" 

"No... I-- I guess. Yeah," I admit with no small amount of shame.

He eyes me again, enjoying my discomfiture and finally smiles somewhat
ruefully. "My wife is convinced she was Mary, Queen of Scots. Why do you
ask?" I close my eyes and ride along on his words, deciding I would like to
trade in my Massachusetts nasal for his more melodic intonation.

"What exactly is a soulmate?" 

"You mean in the one true love sense?" he asks as we pull off the Beltway. 

"Yeah."

"It's a myth."

"It's my experience that myths are usually derived from a truth."

"Perhaps misconception is a better word."

"How so?"

"Despite popular belief, a soulmate has nothing to do with love," he pauses,
searching for the words. "It's about wanting to travel through a series of
incarnations with another soul or souls."

"Really?" I bite my lower lip and consider this. 

He nods. "My wife says we travel together as long as we want to and have
things to learn from each other. The dynamics and relationships are always
evolving... changing..."

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the back of the seat. "You mean we don't
necessarily have to mate with the same soul time after time for all
eternity?"

"What would be the fun in that?" the man says, eyes twinkling. I rest my head
on my arm. I swear I feel Melissa release her grip on my heart, my mind, my
soul and drift slowly away. The cab pulls up in front of Scully's building
before I have the chance to follow this thought into dangerous territory.

I drop back in my seat and pull out my wallet, handing over my Visa. "Do you
believe?"

His eyes meet mine in the mirror again as he deftly runs my card through his
machine and hands it back. "I have yet to amass the scientific evidence to
either prove or disprove it."

I give him an outrageously huge tip and climb from the car laughing.
Skeptics, skeptics everywhere. I pull my cellphone out again and call my
favorite one. Damn. Still no answer. 

I look up and see movement in her darkened window. I take the stairs two at a
time. From down the hall I dial again, her long ago cries for help howl
through my mind like a banshee across the moors. No answer. 

I creep slowly down her hall, pulling my gun as I go. As I near the door I
hear glass shatter and my mind dances with images of Duane Barry coming
through that window. Without a second thought I kick the door in, forgetting
that her landlord threatened to ban me from the building if I did it again.

Scully looks at me, stunned, and drops to her knees. She rolls on to the
floor shaking. Laughing or crying, I can't tell, but alive and in one piece.
My heart begins to beat again. I can breath. I reach down to help her to her
feet.

"Scully, you're drunk," I say, somewhat amused. 

I am surprised when she pulls away. "Crack investigator, that Fox Mulder,"
she sneers and stumbles again. I catch her in my arms and don't want to let
go. When did she get under my skin? When did she become essential, like a
speedball to an addict? She did it so subtlely, with such characteristic
grace, that I didn't even notice.

"Get your hands off me," she snaps, shoving me roughly away. The door to her
soul slams shut. I am a soldier locked out just before the big battle, left
pounding on the huge wooden door, splinters digging into my hands. I scramble
for a seat on her couch just before my knees give out. I take a deep breath
and ask her what's going on.

She takes the chair. "Dana, my name is Dana."

I look at her. Really look at her for the first time in months. My heart
clenches in my chest. When did she get so thin? Almost painfully so. How
could I have not noticed? And she looks tired, she hasn't been sleeping. I
recognize the telltale signs, the puffiness, the dark shadows on her eyes.
"What's going on, Dana?" 

"Nothing," she lies, without ease, and gets to her feet. I feel suddenly
adrift. An astronaut on a broken tether. I feel her floating away from me.
Forever out of reach. "You want a drink?"

"No."  

"Then get the hell out," she orders, gesturing to the door, and nearly
knocking herself over with the effort. I notice the broken bottle against the
wall and conclude that she's had more to drink than I thought. I look back to
see her weaving in front of me. She braces herself on my shoulders. "No?" she
questions.

"You look like you could use a friend," I mumble and pray, please Scully, I
want to be that friend. Let me in. 

"Is that what you are, Mulder," she whispers, leaning so, so close to me. Air
is becoming a scarce commodity. The effort to breath an Olympic event. "Just
a friend."

"Of course." I realize with a start that I'm lying and that I want so much
more than friendship. Where did that come from? Has it been here the entire
time? A skeleton locked in the closet. Reality returns in the form of her
hand slamming into my face. What the hell was that for? Before I can ask, she
starts in with a right. I grab her fist and roll her over, pinning her to the
couch with my body. "What the hell is going on here?" I demand.

Hurt and confusion echo in her eyes. She grabs my hair and for a moment I
think she's going to head butt me. What she actually does shocks me even
more. She presses her lips to mine with an urgency that nearly sends me into
cardiac arrest and brings down the floodgates. My hands explore her body
savagely. I want to possess her. I want to claim her breath as my own. I want
to be the blood that flows through her veins. I feel her soul touching
mine... and then she's gone. On her feet staring down at me. "You really are
a whore," she whispers. 

I feel myself die a little and wish I'd pulled the trigger on that Sig. I
brush the back of my hand across my mouth, an attempt to savor the memory of
her lips. I cannot look at her. If I do, I will lose control. I will come
apart at the seams, a sweater unraveling. And then she drives the stake into
my heart. "Your soulmate isn't even in the ground yet and you kiss me like
that?" 

Her contempt is a living entity. I cannot fight it. At least not now. I climb
to my feet and head for the door. I pray she cannot see me trembling. I grip
the knob and lay my heart out, an ace on the table. "I came here to tell
you... that in this lifetime my soul must have chosen you."

She says nothing and so I close the door behind me. This is not over. It has
just begun. I settle myself in on the floor across the hall. I've waited
countless lifetimes for her. I can wait one more night. 

The End